The ghostly winter silence had given way to the great spring murmur of awakening life.
Jack LondonHe was mastered by the sheer surging of life, the tidal wave of being, the perfect joy of each separate muscle, joint, and sinew in that it was everything that was not death, that it was aglow and rampant, expressing itself in movement, flying exultantly under the stars.
Jack LondonIn noaptea aceea, Colt Alb strapunse tacerea cu un urlet prelung. Isi atinti botul spre stelele reci, impartasindu-le durerea lui.
Jack London…and from that moment Buck hated him with a bitter and deathless hatred.
Jack LondonTags: hatred
They alone moved through the vast inertness. They alone were alive, and they sought for other things that were alive in order that they might devour them and continue to live.
Jack LondonHere was intellectual life, he thought, and here was beauty, warm and wonderful as he had never dreamed it could be. He forgot himself and stared at her with hungry eyes. Here was something to live for, to win to, to fight for—ay, and die for. The books were true. There were such women in the world. She was one of them. She lent wings to his imagination, and great, luminous canvases spread themselves before him whereon loomed vague, gigantic figures of love and romance, and of heroic deeds for woman’s sake—for a pale woman, a flower of gold. And through the swaying, palpitant vision, as through a fairy mirage, he stared at the real woman, sitting there and talking of literature and art. He listened as well, but he stared, unconscious of the fixity of his gaze or of the fact that all that was essentially masculine in his nature was shining in his eyes. But she, who knew little of the world of men, being a woman, was keenly aware of his burning eyes. She had never had men look at her in such fashion, and it embarrassed her. She stumbled and halted in her utterance. The thread of argument slipped from her. He frightened her, and at the same time it was strangely pleasant to be so looked upon. Her training warned her of peril and of wrong, subtle, mysterious, luring; while her instincts rang clarion-voiced through her being, impelling her to hurdle caste and place and gain to this traveller from another world, to this uncouth young fellow with lacerated hands and a line of raw red caused by the unaccustomed linen at his throat, who, all too evidently, was soiled and tainted by ungracious existence. She was clean, and her cleanness revolted; but she was woman, and she was just beginning to learn the paradox of woman.
Jack LondonBut he is not always alone. When the long winter nights come on and the wolves follow their meat into the lower valleys, he may be seen running at the head of the pack through the pale moonlight or glimmering borealis, leaping gigantic above his fellows, his great throat a-bellow as he sings a song of the younger world, which is the song of the pack.
Jack LondonBut the Wild is the Wild, and motherhood is motherhood, at all times fiercely protective whether in the Wild or out of it.
Jack LondonFear urged him to go back, but growth drove him on.
Jack LondonЗащо е тая жажда за живот ? Той е игра, от която нкой не излиза победител. Да живееш, значи тежко да се трудиш и да страдаш,докато те издебне и ти натежи старостта, и тогава отпускаш ръце върху студената пепел от угасналите огньове. Трудно е да живееш. Детето се ражда с мъка, старецът с мъка изпуска последния си дъх и всичките ни дни са изпълнени със скърби и грижи; и все пак човек отива към отворените обятия на смъртта без желание, спъва се, пада, озърта се назад и се бори до сетния дъх. А смъртта е добра. Само животът и всичко свързано с живота причинява страдания. Въпреки това ние обичаме живота и мразим смъртта!
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